


Enough.

by a_nonny_moose



Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: What happens when Google_B dies? A request from voiceintheradio via tumblr!





	Enough.

“I do not understand why we have to attend this session.”  


Google_R sat ramrod straight between Oliver and Google_G. None of them touched each other, none of their backs touched the couch. Dr. Iplier tapped his pen against his clipboard, nervous. 

“You’re here because we’re _worried_ about you,” the Doctor finally sighed, leaning forward. “Ever since Blue–”  


“Apologies, Doctor,” Oliver said, standing abruptly, cutting him off. “We _do_ have work to do.” Google_R didn’t flinch or even look around as Oliver brushed past him with the harsh scrape of metal on metal.   


The door slammed, and Dr. Iplier dropped his head into his free hand. 

Google_R still sat, stock-still. 

Google_G’s shoulders sagged, ever so slightly. 

“Red–” Dr. Iplier began, tone sickeningly gentle.  


“Doctor,” Google_R snapped, eyes flashing a brief red, “what you are about to say is undoubtedly sentimental, concerned, or ultimately useless.”  


As Dr. Iplier stuttered, searching for a response, Google_G shot a glance at Google_R. Brief, but unmissable.

“You forget, Doctor,” Google_R spat, standing with a sharp _whirr_ , “that robots do not have your very _human_  feelings.” With the distinctive _vrr_  of overheating fans, Google_R stalked out.  


The door slammed, and Dr. Iplier looked at Google_G, avoiding his eye. Now they were alone, and a little of the tension had left with both Oliver and Google_R.

“I understand why you are doing this, Doctor,” Google_G whispered, surprising both of them.   


Dr. Iplier opened his mouth to respond, pen held limply in his hand, but Google_G went on.

“You care for our emotional well-being. And while Red is correct, that we do not have ‘human feelings’–” Google_G stiffened, and now it was the Doctor’s turn to avoid his eye, “we do have emotional processors.”

“Green,” Dr. Iplier interrupted, looking up to see his fingers whirring, twiddling in his lap, “I know I’m not the best person to try to help you with this. I know,” he repeated, staring him in the face. “But Green, if there’s _anything_ you need, I’m _here_ , okay?”  


Google_G looked back, blank, unblinking. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay, Doc.” He took a breath, fans buzzing in his chest. “Okay.”

The reassurance was enough. 

* * *

Dr. Iplier asked Oliver to come the next week, alone. ‘Asking,’ as in notifying Oliver that he’d have to spend an hour in the office, then having Wilford shepherd the robot into the clinic with a knife. 

“Thank you for coming, Oliver,” Dr. Iplier said, nodding to Wilford. Wilford tucked his knife away with a halfhearted wink, and shut the door behind him.   


Oliver glared, beeping in annoyance. “It wasn’t as if I had a _choice_ , Doctor.”

Dr. Iplier ignored the murder in Oliver’s eyes, forcing a smile. “Please,” he gestured, “sit down.” He took his seat in front of the couch, pen and clipboard away, hands spread innocently.

Oliver didn’t move, fans practically growling, arms crossed over his chest. 

Dr. Iplier sighed. “Oliver, please. We can talk about anything you want, but talk to me.”

Oliver afforded the Doctor a flash of his eyes, dangerous yellow. 

A different tack, maybe. “What’re you working on, in the office?”

Oliver uncrossed his arms, trying to find a place for his hands. He stood with hands on his hips, resolve falling. “Stuff,” he said, finally, but there was no venom to it. 

Dr. Iplier did his best to look interested. “Upgrades?” he asked, hopeful for an elaboration. 

Oliver gave him a nod, still looking everywhere but his face. “Things I was working on… earlier.”

“D’you want to show me?”  


Oliver sighed, taking a few steps closer, eyeing the couch. “I’m stuck here for an hour, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Dr. Iplier said, shortly, leaving no room for argument.  


With a soft, acquiescing beep, Oliver lowered himself onto the couch. “This is what I’m doing right now,” he said, stretching out an arm. Dr. Iplier leaned forward to see a panel built into Oliver’s forearm flip open, a tiny metal contraption extending outwards. 

“What does it do?”  


Oliver launched shyly into an explanation, and Dr. Iplier listened. Even after the hour was over, Oliver was still rambling, energy bubbling over, and Dr. Iplier listened. He listened until Oliver’s eyes flickered dangerously with low power, and he left, promising to come back the next week. Dr. Iplier took a breath, and all he could do was listen. 

Listening, for Oliver, was enough.

* * *

Google_R stormed in at his appointed time, and Dr. Iplier had to force himself not to flinch. “Can I help–”

“Doctor.” Google_R beeped through his teeth, fans overheating in anger. A steady buzz filled the room. “I understand you are trying to help. However–”  


It was the Doctor’s turn to stand, anger filling out his shoulders. “I am trying to help,” he snapped, and Google_R paused in surprise. “Stop pretending that you’re _above_  that, would you?”

“Robots don’t–”  


“–have emotions, sure,” Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes, hands curling into fists. “I’m only asking you to _talk_  to me, Red.”  


“What do you expect me to talk about?!” Google_R snapped, voice finally cracking in anger. “Yes, _Doctor_ ,” he sneered, stepping closer, oil starting to well up in his eyes, “let me tell you how we found his body, his mainframe corrupted beyond repair. Let me tell you,” he started shouting over the Doctor, fans whirring louder, “how we picked bits of his brain off the floor and scraped his oil off the walls. Would that satisfy you? Would it?”  


Oil dripped down Google_R’s face, shaking in droplets off his face. Dr. Iplier crossed the distance between them in two swift steps, holding out his arms. After a moment, Google_R took his hand, awkward, even in emotion. 

“Tell me,” Dr. Iplier whispered, folding two of his hands over Google_R’s one. “Tell me anything you want to.”  


Google_R told him, and Dr. Iplier listened. 

And for Google_R, talking was enough. 

* * *

And none of them were okay, in the weeks following Google_B’s death. None of them were even close to okay. 

All they could do was reassure, and listen, and talk, talk until their voices gave out.

And that was enough. 


End file.
